Chapter Eight

“But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that succeeded.”

After school, I check my messages, hoping the police department called me back, but only Emily did to see how I’m doing. I head to the townhouse to drop off my backpack and books, determined to scratch items off my to-do list. Nina is in her room on the phone, whiny voice rising and falling between what sounds like whimpers.

I knock lightly on the door. “Nina? You okay?”

The whimpering stops. “I’m fine, Mica. How was school?”

“Same as always. I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back later.” I don’t know what’s going on with her, but I sneak out to give her privacy. Once outside, I focus on Item 1 on my list—Go back and get Coco.

From the top of the hill, I gaze down on a rustling blanket of orange and gold. The air smells of matted leaves and browning foliage. Red brick buildings sit on gray country roads, and the whole thing makes me smile. Fine, maybe I did miss Sleepy Hollow a little.

Though I used to hate the droves of tourists passing through to check out the changing leaves and the field trips full of kids learning about the area’s history and famous resident author, one thing I always loved were the Halloween decorations. On my walk, I note all the cool stuff on porches everywhere—stretchy webs, giant spiders, tombstones, carved pumpkins, painted pumpkins…more pumpkins than you can count.

I make my way down the slope, opting for a shortcut to my old house through a row of yellow birch trees. It’s a quiet route I used to ride my bike on with Bram a long time ago, with a bubbling brook that parallels the foot-drawn path. As water glides over the smooth rocks, I don’t know what I love more, its bubbly sound or the biting cold air sending fresh puffs of leaves raining into the brook.

One lands by my feet, beautifully intact and orange, and I bend to pick it up. I’ll take it back to show Emily. She was so envious I’d be seeing the change in seasons.

Fallen branches crackle underneath my feet.

Lela...

A shape of a person to my left catches my eye. But when I look straight at it, it’s nothing more than some birch trees outside the barren backyard of an old house, its chain link fence sagging in the middle. Who the hell is talking to me?

“Mami?” I call into the empty path.

Nearby open windows emit fragments of conversations from within houses and other sounds filtering through the screens. Pots and pans clanking, clothes dryers running, even the smell of lavender static sheets in the musty air, but no one is here with me.

To my right, I catch another glimpse of a grayish shape, but when I stare straight at it, it’s just the trunk of an old maple tree. “Jesus,” I mutter, keeping my eyes focused on the end of the path.

I hurry toward it, almost there when another sound joins the hubbub that is my crazy mind, a sound completely unlike the din of domestic household noises. I stop and strain my ears. Rhythmic pulse of footsteps. Running? Coming down the shortcut? Leaves crunch somewhere behind me—choppy, in a hurry, and…headed in my direction. Human or animal, I’m not sure. I whirl around to face it, hoping it’s a dog trotting or a jogger charging through the woods.

But there’s no one there.

“Uh, okay…” My whisper forms a warm cloud in the chilly afternoon air. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead as my heart begins pounding hard. My hands turn clammy. I wipe them on my jeans.

The golden path is as empty as when I walked through it. But something ran through here, I know it did—I heard it. Turning back around, I break into a sprint. At the end of the shortcut, I push through an opening in the trees on the east end of Maple Street. Four older boys are there, circling on their bikes. Was one of them in the woods just now, and I just didn’t see him? One boy plants his feet on the ground to stop his bike and gapes at me openmouthed, as if he’s seen the headless horseman himself.

I wave at him to show it’s only me, and he resumes riding. “I’m losing it,” I mutter.

Collectively, the boys ride to the opposite end of the block. I’m alone again on the empty street. Panting, I hustle onto the sidewalk and make my way back to my old blue-gray house. When I finally arrive, I stop to catch my breath and take in the scene again. The house’s faded exterior, sagging front porch, and tall, thin, dry grass all around makes my heart ache.

“Coco,” I call out. “Cocoooo.”

No kitty to be seen. She must be getting her food from somewhere else.

I try the realtor again but get the same stupid voicemail beep. “Hello? Can someone please call me back?” I leave my number yet again then hang up. Then, I do the same with Officer Stanton’s information number and leave a message there, too, when no one answers. What is going on with these people? Exactly how hot is a hotline number that no one picks up?

Taking slow, deliberate steps, I head up Mami’s steps and knock on the door. All is still. Even the trees have stopped moving. Slowly, I press down on the handle. Locked.

“Coco?”

Ambient sounds calm me—distant cars humming, a horn blasting on the river, squeaking of the porch planks. Every time I try calming myself through breathing, like Emily suggested, the action triggers a memory. I hear my parents—

“How long has this been going on, Maria?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about!”

“Let go of my wrist, Jay. I swear, you’re more like your father every day, imagining things that aren’t there.”

“You calling me stupid?”

“I’m calling you delusional.”

“Interesting, Maria, when you’re the one who talks to people who aren’t there. Maybe if you’d pay more attention to me—to her…” Though I was hiding in the pantry, I could tell he was pointing at me. So much for my secret location.

A surge of sadness rises in my chest. I choke with the unexpectedness of it. Why couldn’t we make it as a family? Swallowing back tears, I fight the urge to leave. I must stick this out. The side yard is overgrown with weeds, and the crawl space lattice is broken, exposing the underside of the house and a spot matted with white fur. “So that’s where you’ve been sleeping, Coco?”

Lela, go.

I freeze then turn around slowly, straining to listen. As usual, nobody’s there. All I hear are birds chirping, a screen door slamming somewhere, and my own punctuated laugh. “Mami?”

No answer. It must be my mom if she says Lela. Why is she telling me to go, though? I pinch the bridge of my nose. This is what it feels like to go crazy, isn’t it? When nothing makes sense, but everything feels so real.

The windows and doors to the house are still locked. Though I checked all ways in last time I was here, I’ll try them again. When I crouch to the basement window, something’s changed. The window is broken now, the pane completely gone except for a few jagged edges. Someone broke in since I last came by. I hit the cold ground on my stomach and slide in. Hopefully, someone will suspect me of being another burglar and call the police. Then I’ll finally get to talk to them.

Inside the basement, I choke on the pungent smell of dried urine. How could the realtor not do something about this? In the murkiness, I make out the old Berber carpet, the scratched walls in need of paint.

Holy crap. Look at this place.

Where sewing machines and craft tables used to stand. Where I colored and played with Barbies while Mami crafted dresses for each of her beloved creations. Why didn’t she ever take a break and sit on the floor to play with me?

Heading up the stairs, I realize the basement door might be locked, but when I try it, it gives way. Quiet space looms ahead—

...not here...

Not here? Who’s not here? Whispers flicker in my mind again, most of them indiscernible. And then I realize I have a choice—to either shut my brain against them or open myself up. Thing is, I know that once I do, I might unlock more voices. What if doing that starts a flood of voices and visions, opening a portal or something? Am I ready for that?

Voices can’t hurt me, I tell myself. Just do it. Talk to them. “What was that?” I ask the emptiness bravely. “What do you mean ‘not here’?”

Cold silence this time.

My presence has stirred up the stagnant air. Vertical strips of light filter through the blinds like ghostly sheets hung up to dry. Illuminated dust vortices swirl between them. To my left is the office once used for paying bills and storing boxes of papers—articles my mother had researched, all by hand, never with a computer, books about the region, Irving, the Rockefellers, political histories of Spain and Portugal, whatever. Now it sits empty, two wire hangers in the closet.

“Shh, stop shouting, Maria. She’ll hear you.”

“She’s asleep!”

“She’s not, she’s listening…you don’t even know your own daughter!”

I fight back tears, picking up more of the argument, but I can’t tell anymore where my thoughts begin and end. The wind is back, softly rattling the living room window panes. I stop at the bottom of the stairs, foot poised on the first step, staring up into the darkness.

Gripping the railing, I gradually edge my way up. Regret, like a thick, heavy fog, settles over me. The whole separation began as whispers behind closed doors when I was six or seven until finally one day, my parents were yelling right in front of me. I reach the landing and pause. “Hello?”

Ridiculous. This house is nothing but musty and empty. I aim toward my old bedroom. The door is closed. I brace myself, hand on the doorknob. It’ll be completely painted over, I know it. Any mother who barely spoke to her daughter over the years would have removed all traces of the little girl who once lived here, the little girl who abandoned her. I’m going to find storage boxes, a bigger office, or worst of all—more dolls.

I turn the knob and let the door fly open.

Shiny silver stickers flicker at me, still stuck to the wall, which is still yellow, though more pale than I remembered. I cover my gasp with my hands, and the tears come. The mark on the wall from using my bed as a trampoline is there, too. In the closet, the board games are gone; clean white rectangles on dusty shelves remain. They sat there until recently. I move to the spot where my bed had been, where my little night table with the ballerina lamp used to be.

“Night-night, Mami.”

“Night-night, my little Lela.”

Huge, fat tears slip out and fall. I make no effort to wipe them. This room is used to tears anyway. I back out into the hallway. To the left, my mother’s bedroom looms in the dark.

...was an accident...

I stare at the master bedroom. Again, I try talking back to the voice instead of ignoring it. “What was an accident?” Or was that wasn’t an accident?

The voices are muddled, or maybe I’m not letting them in right. I take two tentative steps toward the room. “What is it, Lela? Come in already,” my mother’s sniffling voice said to me one night, as I lurked just outside her door. All I’d wanted was to say good night to her.

Now, I step into the master bedroom. Moss green walls, drab and dusty beige curtains surround me. I cross the vacant space, pausing outside the bathroom door, pulse pounding in my ears. The little orange tiles, still here, still old and dirty. I force my eyes toward the tub, cracked and rusted around the faucet, dull metal coated with soap residue. A cruel image flashes against my mind like the glint of silent lightning—brown hair streaked with gray, pale expressionless face pressed against porcelain, blood running into the drain.

My limbs begin shaking, but I can’t leave. Not until I know. “How did it happen, Mami? Tell me.” My voice shakes in my throat.

Suddenly, a coppery taste laces my tongue. I swipe it with my thumb. Blood. In the rusted mirror, the girl staring back is almost not me, standing here so goddamn heartbroken. Is it me, or my mother? Something scuttles behind me. I spin around, dropping my leaf. “Hello?”

The tree outside the window scratches against the pane.

What are you doing here? Get out.

“Mami? But you asked me to come…”

No answer. Only my heartbeat pounding between my ears, the whoosh of blood flowing through the capillaries in my head. In the distance, the faraway sound of a boat’s horn blasting. “Mami? I’m not going. Not yet.”

Silence.

Six weeks. Six short weeks ago, Mami was still here, a living, breathing person—the woman who brought me into this world and loved me despite her obsessions, a woman I once loved, still love, even though she did nothing to stop me from leaving…gave me no reason to stay.

Had she tried, had she told me how much she loved me, that she would change, pay more attention, I might’ve never left. Instead, I tested her. Because I was twelve and just as stubborn as she was. The blank space ahead of me feels crackly and charged with energy. I reach out my hand.

Mami, my flesh and blood. No reason to be afraid of her, if she’s here. Even though I can tell. I can tell that I’m not alone.

That she is here.

Right now.

Watching.

LELA, GO!

I bolt away, plummet down the stairs to the dining room, fleeing the voice, crystal clear and right in front of me. That one was not in my mind. It’s one thing to imagine you’re not alone and another to hear someone in the hanging stillness, a voice not your own and yet so familiar. Or was it me who spoke aloud?

Scratches mark the wooden floor where the dense dining chairs had been—my mother’s chair more than the others. The smell of dying lavender returns, a reminder of all things withered in this house, but it’s only my brain playing tricks on me, like everything else.

“Run, like your father.”

“No,” I say, shaking the memory. That can’t be her now. That voice is a memory. I remember her saying that. It’s connected to the dining table. The day my mother sat on one end, me at the other, and she forced me to decide. “You made me choose.”

“Me or Dad. Who’s it going to be?”

I couldn’t take the neglect anymore—the nights at the library, the incessant sewing and research, having to make my own meals or go to Betty Anne for food. Somehow, I had to show her the damage she’d caused me. So I chose my dad. Because that would hurt her and make her change. But it backfired—I changed.

Balled fists at my side, I yell, “Do you hear me? I was twelve! A child should not have to choose!”

All is still, except for my heaving chest. Slowly, a chilly breeze wafts its way in and wraps its icy tendrils around me. My own cloudy breath hangs suspended in the air. Then I hear it. The sickening sound of shoes dragging—foom-foom-foom—from somewhere upstairs.

“Who’s there?” It’s hard to think rationally, but maybe the realtor’s been in the attic all this time? I’m not about to find out.

When I spin around for the front door, it’s wide open, as if someone has just dashed off in a hurry without bothering to close up. I have to run through there? No. I don’t feel like trailing behind a ghost, if that’s what opened the door. But it’s the only way out. I barrel straight for it, stomach in my throat. I can’t help but feel like I’m in one of my own dreams.

Two steps onto the porch, I slam into a live, warm body. A woman cries out and falls against the railing. “Ma-Maria?” She stands there ashen, shaking hands at her mouth.

“What?” I pant and double over to suck in a breath.

Betty Anne’s mouth moves as if to say something, but no sound comes out. She looks the same as the last time I saw her, except grayer, a few more crow’s feet around her eyes, horror splashed across her face. “Who are you?”

I realize the terrible thing it was to come here and dredge up the past, scare the crap out of myself and the neighbor, too. I should’ve gone to her first. “It’s me, Micaela.” I force out my dimples. Betty Anne always loved them, said she could hide inside them, they were so deep.

She shakes her head. Little by little, her face changes as she realizes who I am. Then, her arms stretch out. “Mica? You’re finally home. Oh, come here, honey. You scared the living shit out of me.”

I fall into her arms, half laughing, choking back tears. “I’m so sorry.”

“Are you okay? You didn’t go in there alone, did you?”

I nod.

“Lord Almighty. How could you?” She pats my back.

I want to sob all over her shoulder. I want to tell Betty Anne everything, how I was overcome with a need to see the house, to know and understand, but all I can do is stand here in her arms, remembering. Dinners after her husband died, after Dad had already left. I was on the fence about whether to stay or go. We consoled each other, the two of us sitting in her kitchen like old ladies.

“How did you get in? You have a key?” Her big green eyes question me. She steps into the foyer and surveys the empty house.

“Through the basement. Through—”

“The loose window?”

I nod.

She sighs. “I’ve been meaning to take care of that.” She runs a hand over her silver hair. “But this door was open. I thought you had a key.”

“I thought you opened it,” I say.

“I didn’t.” We look at each other. Betty Anne doesn’t seem as shocked as I expect her to be, as if she were used to doors opening all by themselves. “I found her, you know.”

I swallow hard. “Yes. That must have sucked.”

“I won’t tell you about it.”

I already know. I think back to Sunday when I stood on the porch and felt the horrific vision overtake me. Betty Anne stares at me with an expression I can’t quite decipher. I guess it must be weird seeing me six years later, no longer a little girl. “I was wondering when you’d visit. I have something for you.”

For me? Finally.

“Yes,” she says, as though she heard my thoughts. “We need to leave. We shouldn’t be here. It’s too soon. Come.” She tugs me by the hand. I let her. It’s nice to have someone treating me like a daughter again.

I peer back into the lonely house. Some movement, some twist of smoke catches my eye. Something is still there, but I’m not going back in again. “Wait. Please,” I tell Betty Anne, pausing to soak in the house one last time, because I will not be coming back. I’m leaving now, Mami. I wait for the voices, fragments of thoughts, anything.

My mother doesn’t answer. I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed.

I step aside to let Betty Anne back out, and a flurry of movement from the stairs catches my eye again. I turn my head. Call it stress or lack of sleep, but right as the old woman mumbles something about finding the right key on her key chain, for one fleeting moment, I see her—gaunt and wispy on the stairs.

In a nightdress. Blood spattered on her shoulder.

Twirling my fallen maple leaf.